


Home Front

by Dee_Laundry



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Domestic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-31
Updated: 2007-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-17 19:42:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dee_Laundry/pseuds/Dee_Laundry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is whining and somebody comes</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hay thar, [](http://favyan.livejournal.com/profile)[**favyan**](http://favyan.livejournal.com/) ; remember our discussion way back when? Howdy, [](http://ticcyyy.livejournal.com/profile)[**ticcyyy**](http://ticcyyy.livejournal.com/) , tictac, tictac, tac... Thanks to the ever-awesome [](http://daisylily.livejournal.com/profile)[**daisylily**](http://daisylily.livejournal.com/) for the beta.

_and the patient_

 _polyp_

 _  
efficacy_

 __

 _  
16.9_

  
“I was in the middle of an article!” Wilson protested, as his journal hit the living room floor, pages crumpling every which way.

“But I want to have sex,” House replied, before leaning down over the back of the couch to nip at the side of Wilson’s neck.

“Ow!” Wilson batted at House’s head while pulling away, although he only had a few inches of room, as close as he was to the arm of the couch. “Get away from me; you’re like a horse with those teeth.”

Groaning deeply, House retreated, only to flop over the back of the couch, knocking Wilson in the head and shoulder with his feet as he went. He ignored Wilson’s frustrated swats at his legs and feet and whined, “I want _sex_.”

Wilson stretched as far as he could over House’s insanely heavy legs, trying to reach the journal. “I want to finish reading the study.”

Planting his left foot on the arm of the couch, House pinned Wilson’s chest. “Come on, dude, you’re a _guy_. Testosterone in your veins, erotic thoughts every six minutes – how can you not want to have sex?”

“I’ve spent the last fifteen minutes reading about Stage Four colorectal cancer. Believe me, absolutely none of my thoughts were erotic. I just want to finish the article, make some notes for tomorrow, and go to bed.” He held up a hand as House’s mouth opened. “I mean, go to _sleep_.”

House pressed his left leg into Wilson’s chest even harder and started rubbing his right foot around Wilson’s crotch in a way he clearly meant to be sexy but which was, in fact, extraordinarily irritating.

“Fine,” Wilson said, relenting to the inevitable. “If I give you a handjob, you’ll go to bed afterward and let me finish what I’m doing in peace?”

“Blowjob,” House countered, and Wilson sighed.

“Yes, fine; let’s go.”

House swung his legs down off Wilson’s lap but then made no move to stand up.

“Time is money,” Wilson protested, clapping twice and gesturing in an impatient _get your ass up_ move. “Let’s get this over with.”

Rolling his eyes, House picked up the stereo remote and said, “You’re so _romantic_ , baby. Giving me the chills.”

“Since when do _you_ want –”

“A joke, Wilson. You used to be able to spot those pretty well, before that stick got stuck up your rectum. Or has it wiggled its way to your colon yet?”

Such a dick. Wilson couldn’t believe sometimes that he ever willingly touched, never mind moved in with, such a huge, gigantic asshole _dick_.

Then House _looked_ at him, blue eyes clear and lively, and he felt the thrill he always felt at making such a melancholy man happy. Their relationship was twisted, no doubt about it, but it worked.

He curved a hand around House’s left ear and smiled. “Come on; let’s go.”

“No, here,” House replied. “I want to listen to music.”

Wilson sighed and dropped his hand. “I’m not kneeling on the floor. You threw out the throw pillows, and the rug’s not thick enough.”

“You knelt on the floor last Thursday.”

“Last Thursday I was horny enough to crawl through crushed glass for sex. Now I’m not, and I’m not going to have aching knees keep me from sleeping later just so you can have an orgasm.”

House grunted and shifted, turning toward Wilson, unbuttoning his fly as he moved. “OK, we can both stay on the sofa. Cushy enough for you?”

“Yes, but then we run into a length problem.” He rolled his eyes at House’s immediate leer. “The couch is too short. Maybe if I was five-four.” The dig at House’s old thing for Cuddy (old thing _with_ Cuddy? Wilson didn’t let himself linger there) was probably uncalled for, but Wilson was _not_ interested in contorting himself into the awkward position being on the couch would require.

Scowling, House started to protest, “Last month –”

Wilson held his ground. “Do you want me to go into the horny vs. not thing in more detail? Because I could stretch that out for a good ten minutes.”

“You suck the fun out of everything, instead of the other, more exciting sucking you ought to be doing.” House gestured extravagantly toward the ground. “Lying on the floor good enough for you, Your Majesty?”

Pointing with his chin, Wilson said, “Move the coffee table.” He stretched as House slid off the couch, shoved the table aside, and arranged himself on the floor. When House wiggled out of his jeans, his penis was almost fully erect already. _Good_ , Wilson thought, _this won’t take long then_.

He was halfway to the ground when House stopped him with a gesture. “Remote?” House inquired petulantly, as if Wilson should have read his mind and known he’d forgotten it. Wilson grabbed the damn thing from the seat cushion and tossed it in House’s direction. Only, his fingers slipped a little and it ended up flying through the air faster than he meant straight toward House’s nose.

House barely caught it in time, and Wilson felt sheepishly guilty, even though it was House’s fault for not remembering to bring the stupid thing off the couch with him in the first place. Wilson ignored House’s glare and sat between House’s spread calves.

“Not lying down?” House inquired.

“I have a plan,” Wilson insisted, and leaned forward to lick the underside of House’s dick.

“Mmm.” House was appreciatively content, and Wilson smiled. OK, he wasn’t really in the mood for sex _per se_ , but there was still satisfaction to be gained from providing pleasure. Plus, House was going to owe him one; that was reason enough to smile.

He wrapped a thumb and finger around the base of House’s cock, tilted it to the best angle, and took the head of it into his mouth. He’d given a few gentle warm-up sucks when the music began, startling him into letting go and looking up at House.

“Choral music? Hymns get you off?”

“Oh, yeah, baby,” House groaned with his eyes closed. His face contorted and his hips began to thrust. “Take me to heaven!”

Wilson stared until one blue eye peeked open. “No?” House asked, and they both burst into laughter.

A click of the remote, and something soft and bluesy filled the room. “Mm, _that’s_ what I was going for,” House murmured.

Wilson settled himself back down and nuzzled at House’s balls. There was something inviting about the scent of them, every time.

As he licked a line across them, trying not to sputter on the coarse fuzz, the singer took up her tale of woe. Picking a loose hair from his lip, Wilson asked, “Pain and suffering is sexy?”

“Hmm?” House replied. He was sprawled loosely, no energy to him at all, content to let Wilson do all the work.

He held back a sigh and sloppily kissed the head of House’s cock to wet it. “The lyrics. Her man done her wrong,” he pointed out as he curled his hand around the head and then down the shaft. Saliva wasn’t the best lubricant, but it’d have to do. He wasn’t getting up again until this was done.

“Mmm, tighter,” House replied. Wilson obliged and House continued, “I’m not listening to the words. The guitar and bass are incredible. So much passion.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” The lyrics were still too bleak for Wilson’s tastes in this kind of situation, but if House could ignore them, fair enough. He started a slow rhythm with his hand, gripping tightly the way House preferred. It was a little dry, and he felt House flinch at an accidental pinch of skin. “Sorry,” he murmured, and slipped his mouth over the head again.

He had to leave his lips somewhat slack so the wetness would build, but he tried to compensate with strong tongue work around the rim. House was groaning, and his hips were starting to roll. _That’s it_ , Wilson thought, _move with me_.

He pulled off for a second to swipe his hand over the head and pick up some of the fluid. That seemed to throw off House’s rhythm, so they fell out of sync. House’s disapproving grunts didn’t help anything, but after a few extra licks to the most sensitive area of House’s glans they were back on track.

Wilson was moving, House was moving, House was groaning and _mmm_ -ing, and Wilson was looking forward to this coming to a happy conclusion soon.

Several minutes later, he was still looking forward, although with considerably less optimism. He’d gripped tighter, sped up, tried a few tongue tricks, even attempted a deep throat (albeit unsuccessfully), and nothing was getting the job _done_.

Finally he pulled off and glared up at House. “Could you finish? My back is starting to hurt.”

“You picked that position,” House snapped. “I _told_ you to lie down.”

“If I was lying down, you’d be hearing about a crick in my neck. Are you holding off on purpose to torture me?”

“That makes sense, because delayed gratification is absolutely my thing.” House lifted his head; irritation was etched in every pore. “If you’d pick a technique and stick with it for more than _seven seconds_ , maybe I’d actually get off.”

 _Such_ a dick. Wilson sat up abruptly and stretched his back. He was never going to get the damn article read at this rate.

“Here,” House offered, running his fingers up Wilson’s calf. Wilson looked down to see House literally taking the matter in hand, stroking himself strongly. “I’ll get myself close and then you finish with your mouth, OK?”

“OK,” Wilson agreed. He continued to stretch – his back and his shoulders both could use some relief.

Whatever song was playing now was good, he noticed. Instrumental, with horns; good tempo. It’d be nice to dance to. He wondered if he’d ever get a chance to dance with House in public. Nothing fast or fancy was possible, of course, but just holding House close and swaying would be nice. Probably no time soon, though, because none of the gay bars they’d found in the area had music that House liked –

“Now,” House gritted out, and Wilson was startled out of his thoughts. Oh. Now. He bent low and took House in as far as he could, sucking and sliding, and covering the rest of House’s erection with his hand. He took House’s balls in his other hand and rolled them the way House liked, and finally, _finally_ House was coming.

Wilson loosened his suction to let most of House’s come trickle down his erection. When House’s orgasm was completely done – and House had let out a big contented sigh – Wilson gave House’s penis one last kiss and then spat the rest of the semen into his pubic hair, to keep the mess all in one place.

House was splayed all over the rug, eyes closed and face slack, completely relaxed. Wilson looked at him contentedly for a moment then hauled himself into the bathroom.

After washing his hands and face and thoroughly brushing his teeth, Wilson returned to the living room, hoping to find House up and on his way to bed. House was still sprawled in the same position, although he had opened his eyes.

“’S good, lover boy,” House called. “C’mere, and I’ll do you.”

“That’s all right, House,” Wilson replied, intending to stay completely away. Unfortunately, his journal was near House’s right shoulder, and as he bent to retrieve it, House’s right arm snaked around his ankles, trapping him.

“It’s fine,” he tried to protest, but House reached up – damn, the man had long arms – and clamped onto Wilson’s crotch anyway.

The hand fell away almost immediately. “You’re not even hard,” House groused.

“Colorectal cancer.” Wilson showed House the journal, because he’d obviously forgotten. “Not sexy.”

“Whatever.” House sagged back onto the floor and closed his eyes.

Wilson stepped over him and sat on the couch, right where he’d been before this interlude happened. He found where he’d left off in the study – _and the patient_ – but only made it a few sentences further.

House still hadn’t moved, the lazy bum, and it was irritating Wilson to no end. “You said you’d go to bed,” he protested.

“Afterglowing.”

“You said you’d let me read.”

“And I am.”

“Go to bed. You’re distracting me.”

“Lying here silently is a distraction?” House paused and _did not move_ ; Wilson found that his right hand was on his hip. House continued, “It’s my nakedness, isn’t it? You want some of this, and you’re sad you turned it down.”

Gritting his teeth, Wilson sighed in exasperation. “You _said_ ,” he reminded House, and tried to tell himself that didn’t sound as childishly whiny as he thought.

He met House’s probing glance with a steady gaze – he needed House to go, because this article was not going to read itself.

House’s shoulders rolled in what was probably supposed to be a shrug, and he finally started hauling himself off the rug. Wilson extended a hand to help, but House predictably ignored it.

 _Fine_. Independence Man could do it all himself. Wilson turned back to the journal and most definitely didn’t listen to the little noises that meant House was struggling.

He looked up just in time to see House heading through the bedroom doorway. He remembered House’s last dentist appointment and reminded him, “You should brush your teeth before bed.”

“You should go fuck yourself.” House stopped, and Wilson could see his glare all the way down the hall. “Because you obviously don’t want me to do it any more.”

With that, House walked in the bedroom; the door shutting behind him sounded like a slam to Wilson’s ears.

“Whatever,” Wilson muttered. What did House have to be pissy about? He got what he wanted, the way he _always_ did. Wilson had gone to his knees – metaphorically – the way he _always_ did.

Five minutes later, Wilson threw the journal onto the coffee table (which _he_ then had to put back in place). He’d only read another paragraph. Damn House for ruining his concentration. The man was so _infuriating_. And, OK, Wilson had known that ages ago, but it got to him sometimes.

He was willing to leave House alone, give him space when needed, and House couldn’t do the same in return? It didn’t even require any effort! House could do whatever he pleased, as long as it wasn’t in the same room with Wilson. Was that too much to ask?

Screw this. He’d go to bed now and get up early to finish his work.

He’d already brushed his teeth, so all he had to do was piss before bed. He aimed carefully into the toilet – it needed cleaning again but heaven forbid House should grab the damn toilet brush. _Fuck_ , he was tired.

The bedroom was dark, so he draped his pants over the dresser instead of hanging them. He dropped his shirt on the floor – on House’s side, let _him_ maneuver around it in the morning – and crawled into bed in his underwear. Too tired for pajamas. Facing the side of the bed, he curled up and tried to get his pillow comfortable under his neck.

“Done reading already, Evelyn Wood?” House murmured.

He was tempted not to reply, but relented. “Can’t concentrate. I’ll finish in the morning.”

“Alarm’s set for six. Want me to get you up then?”

Stunned, Wilson rolled over to stare at House. “You’re voluntarily getting up at six? Is the world ending?”

House grinned. “Thought I’d freak Cuddy out by clocking in before her. Also, there’s a surgery at seven I want to watch.”

Wilson nodded and settled into his pillow again. They were each on their side, now facing each other, several inches between them. House had his left hand under the pillow under his head; his right hand was lightly rubbing his thigh.

“Josephs is barking up the wrong tree, anyway,” House continued, referring to the study Wilson had been reading.

“It’s a clinical trial,” Wilson protested. “The numbers have to speak for themselves.”

House shrugged with one shoulder. “She slanted them, picked and chose to fit her pet theory. You would’ve seen it if you’d made it to the end of the article. Carstein and Skolnick’s work is more relevant to what you’re doing, anyway.”

“They’re not ready to publish their latest yet.”

“It’s finished peer review; they’re just proofreading now. All the numbers are final. And better yet, the conclusions are sound ones. I emailed you a copy an hour ago.”

“How did you get your hands on it?”

House wiggled his eyebrows, a gleam in his eye. “Plausible deniability is your best friend.”

Wilson threw an arm over House’s waist and pulled himself closer. “Not quite,” he replied into House’s chest, and thought he could feel House smile.


	2. Home Front, The Flip Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place about a week later. Wilson says "lay" when he should say "lie" -- he's getting desperate with lust; cut him a break.

How-owse.

No.

You're looking mighty _fine_ this evening.

No.

C'mon, Sexy; I'm hot for your bod.

No.

I'll let you top.

No.

I'll let you bottom.

No.

Whichever way, you can just lay there. I'll do all the work.

No.

House!

No.

Fine. Never mind.

Good.

I'll just call up Cuddy and take her out to dinner. Maybe a movie.

I heard she's dying to see the new Nora Ephron flick. Hey, just like you!

Shut up.

...

Seriously. I'm calling Cuddy. I'll be out for hours. No dinner for you.

You got me there. Because I never ate dinner before you moved in.

Fine.

Have fun.

House, just fuck me!

No.

You suck.

Not tonight.


End file.
